


Blood & Sand

by Tseecka



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It figures, Jim thinks, that the one time things go sideways is the one time he decides to bring his new sniper along for the ride instead of one of his usual knuckle-cracking bodyguards. He decides later that it was the right decision, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood & Sand

He’s not sure when, exactly, things go sideways, only that they do so spectacularly and suddenly and he really should have seen it coming. Deals never go smoothly in the Middle East; someone always wants to change the terms at the last minute, add another name to the hit list or marry him to one of their daughters at the last second. Feelings usually end up hurt when he, and occasionally the dull thick-headed flunkie he’s brought with him for protection, decline in a very polite and very firm fashion. He would stop doing business with these people altogether if it wasn’t for the stink of oil that coats their clothing and clogs his pores. It isn’t that he needs their wealth, far from it, but pounds and pennies are an excellent way of weeding out the truly dedicated from the mildly bored, and the rich and fanatical of these sweating, stinking nations have such an abundance of both that it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.

The problem is that when things go sideways here, they really go sideways, and there’s not a lot a small man in a suit can do about it. There are no rules and no limits and a man never knows if he’s about to be accosted by someone waving abut a pistol, a sword, or a rocket launcher. Equal odds on all three, really. He’s not sure entirely what it was he said that got this man’s ire up, but apparently it was enough to make him go for the ceremonial blade on his belt, and he backsteps quickly to keep out of reach of the swinging sword.

It figures, he decides, that this would happen on his first trip to the Middle East with a sniper as backup and not a muscle-bound heavy. He knows his new hire is a crack shot, tested both he and his background extensively to make sure he was getting only the best, but he’s not sure how quickly a sniper can switch targets, or how quickly one man at that range can shoot with the accuracy to take down four or five men rushing him with blades drawn, which looks to be the direction this might be heading. For now, they seem content to stay out of it, and he’s thankful for that as he tries to anticipate the next precision strike. For all the fear you can strike into hearts by having a silent unseen killer at your back, dropping men like flies at a hand signal, that only comes into play once the gunman actually drops someone. Until then, you’re a little man getting expensive trouser legs all dusty, dashing about on a sandy floor trying not to lose your entrails.

“Dammit, Moran,” he hisses through his teeth, face contorting into a violent snarl as he is forced to actually drop and roll through the sand and dirt to escape another swing. He’s getting quicker, though, watching Jim’s moves, and while he is adept enough at hand to hand combat he’s not a dedicated student. He can keep from telegraphing his movements before he makes them; but he has a limited repertoire, and the ugly snake coming after him is starting to catalogue just what they are. He crab walks backwards through the sand, raising an arm instinctively as the blade slices down at his face, and feels his face heat and his blood boil at the soft but distinctive sigh of expensive fabric parting. He’s barely enough time to register that, though, before he’s blindsided by a wash of pain and the warm rush of blood down his arm.

The Westwood is a lost cause at this point, and he hops to his feet as quickly as he can, cradling his arm to his chest and trying not to think about the blood seeping through the layers, staining the material of jacket and shirt and probably undershirt, too. There are a lot of splatters on the floor around him, the injury is bad, and he sidesteps clumsily to avoid the next attack. There are murmurs from the men around him, and he’s only got a couple of minutes before they tire of his ineffectual dance and rush him en masse. Sweat and dust stinging his eyes, he can’t focus, and he trips over his own feet. He stumbles a few paces, and the swordsman is on him. Jim’s just got time to wonder what it feels like to be cloven in two, if he’ll retain consciousness for long enough to find out, when there’s a sudden impact to his chest and he falls backwards to land gracelessly on his arse. There’s a grunt and a groan of pain from somewhere in front of and above him; then there’s, finally, the sweet retort of gunfire, something that sounds like a Browning firing five rounds. Five thumps as bodies hit the dust, and he allows himself to fall back, laughing silently, breathlessly, in relief. He puts the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing at them as he catches his breath, until the blood makes its way down his arm and starts to drip into his eye. The blinding pain is faded to a twinging sting, and he gets to his feet, letting his arm dangle at his side.

Sebastian’s standing there, breathing heavily, and Jim’s breath catches for just a moment. Oh, it was a good idea, hiring him on. His pistol’s hanging loosely in his left hand, and there’s a curl of smoke rising from the vicinity of his lips. All the men are dead but the one who rushed Jim with the sword, and Jim steps forward, no longer minding the blood dripping down his arm, to stand beside his sniper. He glances up, and _oh_ —the left side of Seb’s face is glistening with blood, streaming from a gash that’s split his skin from eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and he understands. There’s a thrill that passes through him at the way Sebastian doesn’t even seem to mind, barely seems to notice, just staring at the man on his knees in front of them with a single-mindedly dangerous glare on his face.

“Y’ all right, boss?” he asks, and his voice barely falters with the heavy lungfuls of air passing in and out of his nose and mouth. He gives Jim a sidelong glance, immediately noting the injured arm, and his eyes slit. He looks like nothing so much as a huge cat, dangerous and predatory, and Jim cracks his neck side to side to work out the tingle of appreciation.

“I’ll live,” he demurs, rolling his head back around to fix the doomed man on the ground with a slow, sinister smirk. “Not that I can say the same for our friend here.” And just like that, Sebastian nods, slams his pistol into the side of the man’s face. His head snaps to one side and in an instant, quick as a shadow, the sniper’s behind him, wrenching his head back around the other way with a sharp, satisfying crack. He kicks the body heavily in the ribs, and Jim has to smile at that, but the smile fades instantly when Seb meets his eyes again.

“Couldn’t shoot,” Sebastian answers, in response to an unasked question. “If I’d dropped even one of ‘em, the rest’d come for you. I figured you could hold your own ‘til I got here.” Jim nods, accepting the explanation—it makes logical sense, and the speed the man would’ve had to use to get here in time is frankly impressive. There’s a legitimate concern in Sebastian’s eyes, though, despite his offhand tone, and it’s not concern about a job well or poorly done. Jim’s not sure he likes seeing it there, knows he might have to beat it out of Sebastian before too long, but his eyes are _shining_ out of the mask of blood. Seb’s tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his lips, and it leaves a streak in the blood coating his face, and Jim’s lost. He tilts his head up, expression falling open into something inviting and utterly depraved, and Seb’s at him in an instant. 

The kiss is rough and hard, slippery with blood and saliva, and Jim’s leaving bloody red streaks in Sebastian’s hair where he grips it too roughly and _yanks_. Their mouths twist together, the gash on the sniper’s face pulls open and lets a small stream of fresh blood trickle down his cheek, and when he gasps with the sudden pain of it Jim licks into his mouth, biting as much as kissing. Sebastian reaches up to grasp his wrists and pull them from his hair, but he misses and digs his fingers around Jim’s arm wound instead. 

The sick little grin Jim feels when he gasps and arches into the pain sends a shudder through him, and _oh yes_ , Sebastian Moran was definitely the man for this particular job. He can feel his pulse beating away at his temple, in his arm, behind his eyes, and he snarls but doesn’t even try to fight when Seb yanks his hands away and twists them around behind his own back. The action brings both his arms around Jim’s shoulders as well, pressing them close and flush, and he pulls away with blood smeared all around his mouth and teeth bright red. Jim allows his eyes to flutter closed, the sight of it so debauched and delicious that he can’t resist the little half groan that drips from his lips, and when he opens his eyes again the heat in Seb’s gaze has only intensified. This close, he can see the flecks of grey in those green eyes, the way the irises are ringed with gold.

“Home,” he orders breathlessly, and is pleased to see Seb’s eyes flutter just a bit, his spine lengthen and arch and his lips part with a soundless sigh. Oh, he does know how to pick them well.


End file.
